A Day in the Country
by Sacskink
Summary: Another follow up to Nina Stephens' "Ursa Major." Comes right after the events of "Lost and Found." Colonel Hogan continues to adapt to his changed circumstances.


**A DAY IN THE COUNTRY**

By Sacskink

A follow up to Nina Stephens' Ursa Major. Takes place immediately after the events of Lost and Found. Colonel Hogan continues to adjust to his new circumstances.

Disclaimer:The Hogan's Heroes characters belong to others. Ursa Major is the creation of Nina Stephens. The Heuer family are mine.

**CHAPTER 1: ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE**

"Ein, zwei, drei…."

The prisoners from Barracks Two shuffled their feet restlessly and rubbed their cold hands as they waited for Sgt. Schultz to finish his count. All around them, a similar scene was playing out at the other huts, as the rest of the POWs were counted by their respective barracks guards.

One man, the only officer among the hundreds of Allied POWs shivering in the crisp morning air, was not squinting even though a the bright morning sunshine was glaring directly into his mischievous brown eyes. With his bare hands jammed into the pockets of his beat-up leather bomber jacket, he rocked gently on his heels while a slightly sardonic smile played across his handsome face. Beside him, a glossy black Labrador retriever waited patiently.

The camp commander, a tall, slender officer in Luftwaffe blue, marched out of the kommandantur, a riding crop clutched tightly in one hand. "Rep-o-o-rt!" he ordered sharply, his breath sending a puff of steam into the frigid morning air.

"All present and accounted for!" responded the fat sergeant, saluting crisply. At nearly 300 pounds, Hans Schultz was nearly impervious to the cold.

The kommandant, Colonel Wilhelm Klink, took a moment to inspect the prisoners' formation, then nodded curtly and shouted, "Dismissed!" Usually, he would have taken the opportunity to make some long-winded announcement to the assembled prisoners, but today he was simply too preoccupied and cut the ritual short. Immediately, the men dispersed—most going back inside the huts, although a few hearty souls elected to stay outside and enjoy the fresh winter air.

The American officer, Colonel Robert Hogan, took up the dog's harness in one hand and strolled over to the German officer. "Good morning, kommandant," he said pleasantly, momentarily releasing the handle so he could toss off a casual gesture that resembled a salute. Although the two colonels had come to an understanding, Hogan still enjoyed teasing the very correct German officer with his disreputable behavior. Since the American's arrival at Stalag 13, Klink's feeling about the American officer had run the gamut from irritation, annoyance and jealousy to respect, admiration and genuine fondness. Although he would have been loath to admit it, he often found Hogan's shenanigans rather amusing.

When Hogan had first arrived at Stalag 13, more than two and half years earlier, his sloppy salutes were challenges, a proud man's defiance to the humiliations of capture and imprisonment. He may have had to submit to the authority of his captors, along with the restrictions and deprivations of life in a Luftstalag, but he could at least demonstrate to himself and the Germans, that while his body may be in prison his spirit remained unbroken.

Hogan's stubborn defiance was a beacon of hope to the hundreds of Allied airmen from six different countries who shared his captivity. Every time the men saw Hogan twit the enemy, he helped to reinstill them with confidence. And on those occasions when Hogan swallowed his pride, they understood that only his concern for their welfare would cause the former squadron commander to show subservience to the enemy. Hogan's selfless dedication to his men was only matched by their unwavering loyalty to him.

Klink rolled his eyes and saluted briefly in return, even though Hogan could not see him do so. "Good morning, Colonel Hogan. What evil are you contemplating this morning?"

"Who, me?" grinned Hogan innocently. His tone became brisk as he got down to business. "I have a number of matters to discuss with you."

"At the moment I am extremely busy. You can come to my office later this afternoon. I will have Schultz find you when I am free," the kommandant directed, "and you will have my undivided attention."

"Thank you, sir." Hogan quickly saluted again. Klink mounted the steps and returned to his office and the mountain of paperwork on his desk, while his American counterpart turned to begin his daily rounds of the camp, his adjutant, Sgt. James Kinchloe, at his side.

The American colonel followed the same route every day, visiting every barracks, the infirmary, the mess hall, the rec hall, the motor pool—anywhere the Allied prisoners were housed, worked or relaxed. If someone was in the cooler or solitary, he insisted on visiting there, too. After he had been blinded in an accident a few months before, it was even more vital that the men see their CO actively in command.

Kinchloe had been Hogan's adjutant almost from the day of the pilot's arrival. They had also come to be good friends, despite differences in rank and race. After the Colonel was injured, Kinch had been forced to assume even more responsibility. As the radioman, Kinch was already in a sense Hogan's ears. Now he had to be his eyes, too.

As Hogan and Kinch walked and talked, the sergeant jotted notes on those concerns, requests and demands that would be presented to the kommandant later. Matters relating to "The Operation" could not be consigned to paper.

"The Operation" was the clandestine espionage network controlled by Colonel Hogan and centered in the extensive network of tunnels underneath Stalag 13. Anything from the rescue of downed or escaped Allied airmen to sabotaging the German war machine to stealing vital military information was fair game for Hogan and his men.

"Sgt. Bauer says the new tunnel entrance in Barracks 12 is ready for your inspection," murmured Kinch as he pretended to write on his clipboard.

Hogan nodded. They had had endless problems with that entrance. The barracks guard, the youthful and near-sighted Cpl. Bauer (generally known as "Deutsch Bauer" to distinguish him from the Canadian sergeant and barracks chief) had nearly found the opening twice in the past four months. Only Deutsch Bauer's trusting nature and poor eyesight had saved them.

"You mean, _your_ inspection," muttered Hogan. _There could be a neon sign and I couldn't see it_, he thought glumly. "Where did Bauer put it this time?"

"We'll find out soon enough," the black man commented as he pushed open the door to Barracks 12. "The boys think they've got it right, so it's hide-and-seek time." If Kinch and Hogan couldn't find the entrance, there was a good chance the goons wouldn't, either.

A couple of hours later, Corporal Peter Newkirk waited by the barracks door and took another drag on his cigarette. He then uttered a short, disgusted oath as a flurry of snow plopped down from the roof onto his head, snuffing out his smoke. _And that's me last fag!_See Note _There won't be any more until the Red Cross packages get here_, he thought irritably, _and they're already a week late._ All the prisoners were suffering from a profound shortage of the three C's: chocolate, coffee and cigarettes.

Newkirk tossed aside his sodden cigarette and walked over to intercept Hogan, who was returning to Barracks Two. As he did, Newkirk smiled and shook his head. The Englishman had stood in awe of his commanding officer almost from the moment they met. Hogan had brought the prisoners of Stalag 13 together in a way that was little short of incredible, then manipulated, or charmed, or connived the Luftwaffe personnel to the point where they were eating out his hand, too.

Newkirk liked and respected the roguish Yank. But he had never so admired his commander as he did now, watching the other man deal with the most traumatic of losses imaginable with dignity and fortitude. _It's easy to throw in your cards when the hand is bad, but the stay in the game and play out the hand you're dealt—that takes real guts. _

"Colonel 'ogan," he began.

"What's up, Newkirk?"

"LeBeau wanted me to tell you that the mess supply shipment was short again." Besides cooking for the colonel and his inner circle, LeBeau was the liaison with the prisoners' mess hall. Everyone had noticed that rations had been rather skimpy of late.

"Thanks. That's one more thing to add to the list."

"Hold it, fellas! Let the man do his job!" Colonel Hogan's voice carried over the clamor of POWs besieging Sergeant Schultz. The guard looked gratefully at the Senior POW before opening his pouch to dispense its cargo.

Mail call was usually like this.

After the last letter had been delivered, Schultz retreated from the barracks. The men eagerly ripped open their envelopes, drinking in the censored words of their loved ones from home.

Feeling his own spirits plummet, Colonel Robert Hogan clutched his own mail and quietly retreated into his office, shutting the door softly behind him. He laid back on his bunk, the unopened letters still tight in his hand. He made no move to open them.

What was the point?

Less than three months ago, he had been blinded—probably permanently—by a land mine encountered during a late night rendezvous with the Underground. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to master his churning emotions. One part of him realized he was coping better than anyone, himself included, could have predicted. He was still Papa Bear, still in command of the espionage and sabotage operation right in the heart of Germany. He was responsible for the health and welfare of nearly a thousand Allied airmen captured by the Nazis, as well the coordinator for Underground activities throughout this region of Germany.

But he couldn't even read his own mail.

When had these letters been written, and by whom? Had they gotten his last letter yet? That had been the hardest letter he had ever composed, harder even than the first letter after his capture. Having to tell his loved ones that he was disabled with no hope of recovery was like announcing his own death. Worse still, he couldn't even write it himself, he had to dictate it to Sergeant Kinchloe.

Although Kinch was his closest friend in the camp, even with him Hogan maintained a certain emotional distance. Up to the time of his accident his men knew very little about Hogan's personal life. He had carefully maintained his command façade, always keeping a tight control over his feelings, though even he couldn't keep control all the time, which may have explained his notorious temper. Now, if he wasn't going to be completely and totally isolated, he'd had to open up a bit. He fervently hoped he wasn't becoming too familiar, lest familiarity make him appear vulnerable and weak. Sometimes, in his worst moments of late, the strength he drew from his men's respect and confidence was all that kept him going.

Someone knocked at the door of his quarters. He took a deep breath before calling, "Come."

"Colonel Hogan?" inquired a youthful voice. Pvt. Hadley, a 19-year-old from the Pensacola, entered.

"Hi, Hadley." Hogan smiled and sat up to greet the young enlisted man. "How are you?"

"Ah'm fine, sir. Uh, would you like me to read your letters to you?" the boy offered shyly. Hadley had been captured only a week before Hogan's accident. He hadn't received any mail at all, as it sometimes took six months for mail to reach a newly captured POW. Hogan remembered vividly how he felt the first few months of his incarceration, waiting—yearning—for some communication with his family and friends, some link with home. The boy was so hungry for contact that even reading someone else's mail would be a treat.

Hogan smiled kindly. "Yes, Hadley. I'd like that very much." He passed the letters to the enlisted man.

"The first one is from Mrs. Michael Hogan. Is that your mom, sir?"

"Uh huh." Hogan settled back on his bunk, his arms crossed behind his head. He conjured up a mental image of his mother's face as the boy began to read out loud.

"Carter!"

It was late in the afternoon and the American sergeant was busy polishing a pair of boots.

"What's up, Schultzie?" he asked.

The portly German rested his rifle butt on the ground as he caught his breath. It didn't take a lot of effort to wind him.

"Where is Colonel Hogan? Have you seen h--?" Schultz stopped mid-sentence as his ears were assaulted by a cacophony emanating from the prisoners' rec hall.

"I think you found him," laughed the young man from Bullfrog, North Dakota. He got up and followed Schultz who followed the noise.

Carter and Schultz pushed open the rec hall door. Inside was the senior POW officer relaxing by flailing away at a set of drums, part of the complement of instruments supplied by the Red Cross. To be fair, Hogan was pretty good at his chosen instrument, but few could tolerate being too close while he let off steam.

_Ach du lieber_, thought Schultz, gritting his teeth, _first it was Kommandant Klink with his violin, now it's Colonel Hogan and his drums. What is it about officers and noise? _

Schultz tried to hold the racket at bay by putting one hand over his ear. It was futile, so he thrust his rifle to Carter and clapped both hands over his ears. The bemused prisoner leaned casually on the weapon, well aware that Schultz's rifle was never loaded.

"Colonel Hogan! _Colonel Hogan!_ COLONEL HOGAN!" shouted the guard in a rising crescendo.

The black-haired officer stilled the vibrating drum skin with one hand. "Hi, Schultz," he grinned. Hogan didn't have to see his face to know the din was making the guard wince.

"Thank you! Kommandant Klink wants to see you in his office. Schnell."

"Okay, okay." Hogan careful put the drumsticks carefully in their place. Always an orderly man, he had become even more so since his accident. It was one of the many strategies he had learned to help him cope with his circumstances.

"Jah, let's go." The guard thought for a moment, then added, "Carter, where is my rifle?"

"Right here Schultzie. Tell you what, I'll trade you one gun for one Colonel. If you don't mind, that is, sir?" he added for Hogan's benefit.

"Either that, or I'll take the gun and you two can see Klink," laughed Hogan.

"Jolly joker," muttered Schultz as he left them.

Carter offered Hogan his arm and led him across the compound to the kommandantur. "Where's the Major?" he asked conversationally.

"Hilda's watching him. Make a note of this: girls love dogs." Hogan was the camp's acknowledged expert on the fairer sex, even though he was now engaged and officially out of circulation.

"And let me guess, dogs do not love drums." Carter laughed.

"Bingo." Hogan chuckled as he pushed open the office door.

Klink got right down to business. "Colonel Hogan, how would your men like a day in the country?"

Hogan cocked an eyebrow. "It's a bit cold for a picnic," he remarked sarcastically.

"How would you like more firewood?"

"Uh huh. What's the catch?" Hogan recognized the opening of negotiations.

"No catch. There's plenty of fallen trees near the Wurzburg road, just waiting to be collected."

"And what do we have to do?" There had to be more coming.

"Just go out and collect it."

"You mean chop it up."

"Well, yes." Klink paused, "after you clear the mudslide."

_Uh huh. _"That's pretty hard work. In the cold. My men could work up quite an appetite." Hogan countered.

"All right, what do you want?"

"Two extra slices of bread."

"Agreed."

"And morning roll call an hour later."

"What?"

"Clearing roads and chopping wood. That's hard work. We need our beauty sleep."

"Oh, all right. Two slices of bread and morning roll call an hour later." Klink really didn't mind giving in to the last demand, it meant he could sleep in, too.

"Thank you, Herr Kommandant."

"Have your men ready immediately after roll call tomorrow."

"Yes, sir. An hour later."

"Yes, yes, yes! Oh, and Hogan—" Klink added significantly. "Be sure your men are on their best behavior. The SS has increased patrols in the area, guarding a munitions train." The Klink's slip of the tongue was no accident.

That night, after evening roll call, down in the tunnel, Hogan waited for Carter and Kinch to return from blowing up a munitions shipment. _I hope the explosion is everything Andrew expects_. _Wish I could see it, too_. Even though this mission was fairly routine (at least by their standards), Hogan was pacing back and forth anxiously. He hated sending his men out to face danger while he waited behind in safety.

He fingered his wristwatch for the umpteenth time.

He turned at the sound of someone descending the ladder from the barracks.

"Coffee, mon colonel?" asked LeBeau, holding a thermos and producing two chipped mugs from his jacket pockets. The Frenchman had brewed up the last of his emergency hoard of coffee for his commander.

"Thanks, Louis." Hogan said with feeling as he sipped the hot liquid.

"Shouldn't they be back by now?" the Frenchman inquired, voicing Hogan's own concern.

Hogan leaned against the cold earthen wall of the tunnel for a moment, then resumed pacing. "Yup."

LeBeau made no immediate comment, even though he, too, was concerned by the delay. "There wasn't any choice, sir. London said it had to be done tonight." Hogan and his men had inherited the sabotage job after another Underground unit had failed in its own attempt to blow up the munitions at the depot. Hogan had a bad feeling about the assignment, even before he learned through Klink that the SS had doubled the patrols guarding the shipment.

Since that fateful night at the Schlemmer Pass, when the kommandant realized that his Senior POW officer was in reality Papa Bear, the most wanted Underground leader in the country, he had been quietly making information available to the American. Although the German officer preferred to maintain the fiction that nothing had changed, Klink was becoming both collaborator and ally.

Note: British slang for cigarette.

**CHAPTER 2: A QUESTION OF GEOGRAPHY**

Colonel Robert Hogan seemed to be staring into space. Around him were the sounds of men working—sawing and chopping wood, rolling wheelbarrows and the periodic _thuds _as the wood was tossed into the back of one of the camp trucks. His dog, Major, waited patiently at his side.

It was not unusual for the Senior POW Officer to accompany his men on work details. Hogan took his duties as Senior POW Officer very seriously. Indeed, he was the only officer among the more than 900 Allied airmen incarcerated at Luftstalag 13. He was, however, far from an ordinary POW. Under the code name "Papa Bear" he was also the leader of a clandestine sabotage and espionage unit based in the heart of Nazi Germany.

Today, however, his mission was immediate and personal: retraining himself to operate in world of darkness. Less then three months earlier, he had suffered a devasting injury that left him blind. Miraculously, London had believed in him enough to send a special agent to train him in the skills he would need to survive and reconfirmed his command role.

It had been a difficult transition, and he still hadn't fully come to terms with his limitations. He had had to relearn almost every routine of daily life: eating, grooming, even how to walk with another person. He had mastered the geography inside the barbed wire of the prison compound. Now he was trying to reacquaint himself with the wider world outside the fence.

Sergeant James Kinchloe, Hogan's second in command, put down his saw and walked over next to his CO. As Hogan's adjutant and closest friend in camp, he was the best able to judge the ex-pilot's moods. Today his seemed especially abstracted.

"How's it going, Kinch?" Even with no words spoken, Hogan knew who was near him.

"Not bad. Should keep us warm one, two nights." The sergeant massaged his tired arm muscles. "How're you doin'?"

Hogan cocked one eyebrow and snorted. "Hey, I got the easy job. Just stand around and listen to you guys sweat," he said lightly. Kinch wasn't fooled, he knew Hogan too well. _Who're you kidding? It's tearing you apart. _Since the accident, he had not being able to participate in late night excursions to blow up bridges, pass information or ferry downed airmen and escapees. Hogan, however, was one officer who would never be content to sit on the sidelines.

Kinch led his friend to the far side of the road so they could talk without being overheard. The sergeant stuffed his hands under his armpits and looked around, being careful that none of the guards was within earshot. "Okay, how far are we from camp?"

Hogan's forehead wrinkled in thought. "I think about ten kilometers."

"Uh huh. Tell me more."

"We took the main road out of camp. Turned east onto the Hammelburg Road, then south onto the road to Wurzburg."

"That's right. What else can you tell me?"

Hogan thought about the sounds and sensations of the drive from camp combined with his memory of the countryside. "We crossed a small stream, followed by a hairpin turn. That means we're in the woods surrounded by heavy underbrush. There's a steep embankment on the right. The stream turns to the north." He paused, then added, "Isn't the Heuer farm on the other side of the river?" The POWs frequently worked on the Heuer farm in exchange for fresh milk and eggs and fruit.

Kinch rubbed his hands with satisfaction. "Not bad at all!"

Hogan smiled, pleased with himself. It was like going back to school, learning how to relate to the world without his sight. Along with being adjutant and radioman, Kinch had added geography tutor to his long list of duties.

While Hogan and Kinch were talking, Sergeant of the Guard Hans Schultz was checking the darkening sky. The weather, so fresh and clear only a day ago, had given way to a fast-moving storm front. He noted the amount of wood the prisoners had collected, the obvious signs of fatigue in their faces, as well as the unpleasant promise of the approaching storm, and made his decision.

"It's time to go back to camp. Everyone back in the truck. Back-back-back. Schnell." The POWs gratefully deposited the last of the firewood and their tools before climbing into the canvas-covered back of the larger truck.

"Colonel Hogan, would you like to ride up front?" Schultz suggested. He like Hogan and wanted the Senior POW officer to have a more comfortable ride back.

"That's okay, Schultzie Thanks anyway" Hogan put his hand on the guard's arm and let himself be led to the back of the truck with the other prisoners.

He sat by the open end of the truck, feeling the vehicle sway and the wet drops on his face as he stared sightlessly into space. Suddenly, he was rocked as the truck swerved on the slick road. He grabbed hold of the tailgate. Major barked once in surprise.

"Bloody 'ell!" muttered Newkirk as he was thrown up from his seat and knocked into his commanding officer. Around them, the other men were jostling, trying to regain their balance as the vehicle swayed and bucked. Even the guards had to let go of their weapons so they could use both hands to remain upright.

Above them, the heavens poured out their fury. The pelting rain combined with a slashing sideways wind. A flash of lightning was followed by an ominous rumble of thunder. At the driver's seat, Corporal Schmidt wrestled to maintain control while Sgt. Schultz hung on for dear life. The rain was coming down so hard and fast that even with the wipers going full tilt, they still couldn't see out the windshield.

Another bolt of lightning cracked down and struck a tree up ahead. Half the trunk tore away and fell across the roadway. Schmidt slammed on the brakes and jerked the wheel hard to the right, trying to keep the vehicle from rolling off the steep slope on the left side of the road. Instead, the truck fishtailed, then flipped onto its side and skidded sideways into the muddy embankment.

For a few moments that seemed like an eternity the only sound on the road was the splatter of the rain. Then a chorus of men's voices rose up, moaning and swearing, as they picked themselves up and assessed the damage.

A muffled groan brought Schultz back to awareness. His rifle still clutched in one hand, he managed to pull himself up and push the door open enough to squeeze out. From underneath him, a battered Schmidt managed to disentangle himself and follow suit.

The two soldiers looked at each other, dumbfounded, for a moment before either realized just what had happened. Schultz gasped, tossed his weapon aside, and ran to help the others.

All around them, POWs were scattered across the roadway. Most seemed to be stirring and hauling themselves to their feet, but it was clear, even in the few moments it took the sergeant to gather his wits, that there were some serious injuries.

He could see Newkirk, his left arm dangling limply at his side, reach down with his good hand and help Corporal Langenscheidt to his feet. Langenscheidt seemed shaky and had an abrasion on his cheek, but otherwise seemed all right. Schultz also quickly noted that Kinchloe and Moskowitz, although still down, were at least conscious and trying to get up. Schultz was about to help them when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw two dark shapes lying on the wet pavement about 20 feet from the others. One of the shapes wore a red scarf, _LeBeau! _The other was Colonel Hogan's dog, Ursa Major.

Newkirk and Langenscheidt both turned as they heard the fat sergeant utter a strangled cry. They followed his gaze, then less than a heartbeat later, ran after him. Schultz and Newkirk fell on their knees beside the little Frenchman, while Langenscheidt sat down and cradled the wet dog in his lap.

Newkirk gently felt LeBeau's neck for a pulse. "We need to get 'im back to camp," he murmured.

"Jah, jah," agreed Schultz, his eyes riveted on the unconscious prisoner. The little Frenchman was one of the fat guard's favorite people.

Some of the men, the least battered, righted the truck. One of the prisoners, an Australian named Hawkins, climbed into the driver's seat. Schmidt, who was still dazed, stood and watched as the Aussie turned over the engine and gunned the motor.

"Hey, Schmitty!" he called down, "sounds all right, mate!" Schmidt understood very little English but he did recognize the hopeful tone of voice. He pulled himself into the cab while Hawkins obligingly slid over.

The other men were helping the casualties into the back. The two most severely injured wereCpl. "Deutsch" Bauer and Cpl. LeBeau. Bauer 's eyeglasses had shattered, cutting his forehead. LeBeau had a large lump on his head. Langenscheidt scooped up the large dog and delivered him tenderly to willing hands.

After the last men were back inside, Schultz started a head count. "Ein, zwei, drei, vrei…." _No, that's not right. _He tried again. "Ein, zwei, drei…." No, still not right. _Who's missing? _He looked at the men in the truck while mentally reviewing the roster, then stopped as his eyes came to the dog.

"Where is Colonel Hogan?" he cried. For the first time, the wet and battered men realized which one of their number was missing.

Schultz ran back down the road, searching and calling out. Three prisoners climbed back down and joined in the hunt. The only trace they found was Hogan's crush cap, washed into a gully.

With his heart in his mouth, Schultz signalled the men back to the truck. They weren't going to find anything under these conditions, and he realized that the casualties, especially Bauer and LeBeau, needed medical attention while the rest of them needed to get warm and dry. The truck turned around and lumbered back to take another road back to camp.

Colonel Hogan, the nearest to the back of the vehicle, had been thrown the farthest when it turned over. He slid down the embankment, coming to rest when his body struck a large object.

He woke up, coughing and shivering as the pelting rain turned to sleet. Every part of his body hurt. He pulled himself up on his elbows and tried to remember what happened. He remembered the truck bucking and the crack of lightning, and the sensation of sliding downward. Beyond that, he was completely disoriented. He felt around, trying to figure out where he was now. He felt a slick bed of wet leaves under this hands, and felt the rough bark to his right. _A downed log?_ he thought, as he hauled himself up to a sitting position, then slowly got to his feet.

"Hey!" he called out, "Anyone there?" He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled again, "Hello! Kamrade! Hello! Nicht schiessen!" He then stopped, straining to hear any response, but there was nothing but the howl of the wind and the hard spatter of the sleet. Hunched over, his outstretched arms feeling around, he tried a few tentative steps forward before tripping and falling to his knees.

Starting to panic, he felt around until his hand grasped a broken branch. He ran his hands up and down. Testing it, he found it seemed strong, fairly straight and about his armspan in length. Clambering back to his feet, he grasped the branch in his right hand, using it to feel for obstacles as he slowly moved forward.

He stopped as the branch struck something solid. He stretched out his shaking hands and found a tree trunk. He encircled it with his arms, trying to determine its girth. With his face pressed against the bark, he could just overlap his hands on the far side. In doing this, he made a discovery: moss. _What was it about moss? Oh, yeah, moss grows on the north side of trees_, he remembered.

He thought for a moment. They had been traveling southwest when the truck overturned. _Back the way we came, we crossed the main road back to Hammelburg. If I can keep going due north, I ought to hit that road or the stream eventually. _

Picking up his "cane" he moved cautiously forward, feeling each tree he encountered and hoping against hope that German moss followed the same rules as American moss. _If not, I'm done for_, he thought grimly.

Schultz contacted his commander on the walkie-talkie, apprising him of the accident, the injuries and the loss of Colonel Hogan. Alone is his office, Klink swore under his breath. He was already painfully aware that Hogan was a saboteur and spy, however, this disappearance could not have been planned. Therefore, it was likely the man was injured—or worse—and all alone. Even before the trucks reentered the camp, a doctor had been called to care for the injured and search parties sent out into the night to locate the missing prisoner.

Laboriously working his way from tree to tree, Hogan was muttering few oaths of his own. He was cold, wet, miserable, and yes—scared. He was also exhausted. He didn't know where he was or where he had been. _Even if I'm right about the cross road, I don't know how far it is or how far I've gone_. _For all I know, I might be going around in circles._

Clinging to a sapling, he stopped when he heard the sound of running water. _Did I miss the road? Is this the stream bordering the Heuer farm?_ He remembered that stream as little more than a rivulet, only a foot or two in depth. To his tired ears this sounded like a torrent. _Maybe it's swelled with the rain_, he wondered. If he was right and this was the stream he remembered, the other side was open pasture. Even if he couldn't find help, at least someone might see him.

Tapping his way forward, his unsteady feet slipped on the wet stones and slime on the river's edge. He fell hard on his already battered hands and knees. Clamoring to his feet, he cautiously stepped into the fast-moving water, using the makeshift cane as a walking stick, getting wet halfway up his thighs. At first, the icy water felt good—soothing the burning from the innumerable cuts and scratches on his legs. A few minutes later, his feet went numb. _Wonderful!_

Once across the river, he scrambled up a slight embankment and collapsed in a stand of muddy grass, too exhausted to go on.

A muffled snort and a warm breath brought him out of his stupor. Someone—or something—was nibbling daintily at his collar. He rolled over weakly and reached up—only to feel a set of massive teeth surrounded by wide, soft lips. _A horse—a big one!_

He crawled toward the animal until he found its huge hoof. Using the animal for support, he managed to get to his feet. Once he was standing, the animal seemed even bigger. Its shoulder was about level with his head. _One of those big draft horses farmers use to plow fields and pull wagons. _Hogan was no expert on livestock, but he had spent enough time in Germany—albeit unwillingly—to realize that these horses were bred not only for size and strength, but gentleness as well. _Damn good thing, too_.

Thankfully the creature's mane was long and loose. He wrapped his hand securely in the wet hair and simply stumbled along wherever the beast chose to take him. It couldn't be any worse than where he had been.

After what seemed like hours, the horse ambled back to its stable and a peaceable meal of dry hay. Realizing he was in a sheltered place, the man let go and slid to the ground, oblivious to his surroundings or the gigantic hooves so near his head.

Georg Neuberg was looking out the kitchen window, watching the barn to see how long it would take Moldau to come back. Moldau, a two-year-old Belgian filly, was the smartest and most mischievous of the horses on the Heuer farm. She had figured out how to open the door to her stable and get out for solitary romps in the fields. Georg wanted to catch her coming back. She always returned: she wasn't a runaway, just a scalawag. Once inside, he would put a lock on the paddock door. That would teach her.

Sure enough, around eleven o'clock, a familiar dark shape wandered into the barn. Putting on his coat and boots and holding a lantern in one hand, Georg crept into the barn. Raising the lantern, he looked inside Moldau's paddock at his errant filly.

"There you are, you devil," he said fondly. Georg, the oldest of Herr Heuer's many grandchildren, loved horses. He could never stay angry at any of them for long.

His eyes wandered up and down the horse, making sure she was unharmed from her adventures. He caught his breath when he noticed the dark shape in the straw. _Gott in Himmel! A man!_

He hung the lantern on a peg, opened the gate and bent down to examine this unexpected visitor. The man was filthy and battered. He was also shivering violently. That was enough for the young man—whoever he was, he needed help, and quickly.

"Oma! Opa!" he shouted "Come quickly!"

**CHAPTER 3: FRIENDLY FIRES**

When Hogan woke, several hours later, he had no idea where he was or how he got there. The voluptuous luxury of soft cushions and a featherbed on his naked skin told him he was not in his quarters at Stalag 13. He could hear the faint murmur of voices and smell the mouthwatering aroma of sausages and fresh baked bread. Wherever he was, he hoped the delicious smells were meant for him.

The couch creaked as he sat up and swung his bare feet over the side, the feather comforter wrapped around his bare torso. It was only then that he realized his lacerated knees had been bandaged. Both of his battered hands were wrapped in gauze with only the fingers sticking out. Before he could make any more revelations, a woman's voice sang out from an adjacent room.

"Gut morgen, Herr Colonel," Hogan turned toward the sound. "Are you hungry? Breakfast is almost ready."

"Uh, thanks." He sat still, disoriented. The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it.

"Well, get dressed. Your uniform is hanging by the fireplace. Hurry up!" The lady, whoever she was, was a kindly bully. Still, he made no move to rise. Instead, he put his right hand out and felt around, continuing his silent investigation of his immediate surroundings.

Frau Heuer put down the knife she had been using to slice bread and went to check on her "guest." Something in his behavior alerted her that something had changed in the genial American officer. The farm wife hadn't seen Hogan since October, when the POWs had harvested apples from the orchard. She didn't know about Hogan's accident, nor of its cruel aftermath.

"Colonel Hogan," he said. Hogan turned toward his voice, a slightly confused expression on his face.

His brow wrinkled in puzzlement. "Where am I?"

"Don't you know? This is the Heuer farm. Don't you recognize me?"

Hogan rubbed a hand over his stubbly face, still fuddled by sleep. "Frau Heuer? How did I get here? Where are my clothes?" Frau Heuer's eyes grew large. Hogan should have seen them, not six feet away by the fireplace. They were directly in front of him, impossible to miss….

Unless…_Oh no!_

She collected his undergarments and placed them in his hands, along with one of her husband's shirts and a pair of pants. "Your clothes are still wet. You can wear August's things for now. You can I'll leave you alone to dress in peace." She paused, then added hesitantly, "Do you need help?"

Hogan reddened with embarrassment. "No, I'll be fine. I…I'll explain everything, I promise." He hated rehashing his problem. _Don't get touchy, Rob. These nice people saved your bacon. You owe them an explanation._

"When you are ready, Colonel, call me and I'll guide you to the kitchen. I hope you're hungry."

"Yes ma'am! Thank you," he replied with feeling.

Hogan waited until he was sure he was alone, then dressed quickly. _They would have been justified if they had called the Gestapo_, he thought. _Oh God, I hope they didn't. _He pushed the uncomfortable thought aside. _Don't go looking for trouble, Robert old boy, trouble will find you soon enough._

At the big kitchen table, his hostess pressed a cup of hot coffee into her hand. After more than four years of war, real coffee was a luxury in Germany, as Hogan knew well. The fact that his hostess would share her precious supply with an enemy visitor was indescribably kind.

"August and the boys are outside tending the stock and the girls are doing their chores. It's just the two of us right now. Please tell me what happened to you." He could hear the worry in her voice.

Hogan sipped the coffee and composed his thoughts. "I didn't escape, if you're worried about that. There was an accident and I got lost."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" Hogan smiled at her obvious relief. _I'm glad, too. I'd hate to put you in the position of turning me in._

"Would you please contact the kommandant and tell him where I am? I wouldn't want anyone to worry about me."

"Sehr gut." She rose and went to the telephone in the hallway. Hogan heard her dial and the quiet murmur of her voice. She returned a few minutes later.

"Herr Kommandant was very relieved to know you were safe. He wanted me to tell you he would let your men know where you were. He'll send someone out to fetch you later today, if the weather will allow. It's been snowing hard since midnight."

"Snowing?" Hogan echoed.

"Jah. You were lucky you didn't get caught in it."

"I'll say. I'd probably be dead right now." He shuddered.

"In the meantime, don't worry. I told Wilhelm you were welcome to stay as long as you like." Hogan smiled at the use of Klink's first name. Klink was a frequent visitor to the farm since the arrival of Frau Heuer's widowed niece, Frieda, last summer. According to Hogan's informant, the gossipy Sgt. Schultz, the attraction was mutual.

Breakfast was a noisy affair. The Heuer family was large and exuberant. Most of them knew Hogan, at least casually, from work details over the past two years.

Frau Frieda finished cutting up the sausages and buttering a couple of slices of fresh black bread for Colonel Hogan. She would have prepared his plate anyway, as his bandaged hands would have made using a knife difficult, but she had been as shocked and saddened as her aunt when she learned what had befallen the American.

"Here you are, Herr Colonel," she said as she slid the plate in front of him. She then added in a whisper, "scrambled eggs, bread and butter, potato pancakes, sausages and ham. The meat is cut up."

"Danke, Frau Schlacter," Hogan said gratefully as he picked up his fork. He had come a long way since that bleak morning in November, but he was still a bit nervous about eating in front of strangers. Surrepticiously, he moved the fork around the perimeter of the plate, noting where the water glass and the big mug of fresh milk were located. If the others noticed his investigation, they had the good grace to say nothing.

After the meal, as the younger family members cleaned up, Frieda led Hogan around the house, acquainting him with the various rooms, and then leaving him in the guest bathroom to freshen up.

"When you are ready, join us in the sitting room. Onkel has a bottle of good sherry waiting."

When Hogan reemerged, he was showered and shaved, although he had a few nicks to show for it. This was the first time he had used a straight blade razor since his accident. His finger-combed hair was still tossled, making him look younger than his 38 years.

His hosts were properly sympathetic when he told them the official story of how he had lost his vision after a fall from his bunk. The truth, that he had been thrown by the force of an exploding landmine, was a tightly held secret.

As they talked, Frau Elsa and Frau Frieda quietly repaired the many rents and tears in Hogan's uniform. Later, when he realized what they had done, he was touched beyond words.

Late that afternoon, after the roads had been cleared of snow, Sgt. Schultz and Cpl. Langenscheidt drove up in a staff car to collect the errant officer. When he climbed into the car, he was pleased to find his dog, Major, waiting patiently. Like his master, the dog was had been bandaged and coddled during their separation. Now, refreshed and invigorated, they were once again ready to take on the enemy.

_Ah,_ thought Hogan as he fondled the dog, _there's nothing like a day in the country_.


End file.
